


Mine, Mine

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injured Mycroft, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Protectiveness, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is injured. Sherlock reacts in a way neither of them had expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine, Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Hi! If you're still taking rare pair prompts - how about some first time Holmescest where Mycroft is injured and Sherlock freaks the fuck out and goes GRABBY HANDS MINE MINE DON'T TOUCH and everyone, including Mycroft, is surprised by this turn of events... Anything with injured Mycroft and possessive Sherlock wins the internets, basically!

Sherlock was spread out on the lounge. He was shockingly, criminally bored. John wasn’t helping. He was tapping away at his laptop, ignoring Sherlock and his ‘theatrics’.   
  
Theatrics. Nonsense. John might have moments of cleverness, but he was entirely unable to even imagine the type of boredom that Sherlock experienced. He thought being bored was being between jobs, of having a loose end, of being somewhat unsatisfied wit the world.  
  
If only… Sherlock knows what being bored truly, really is. Feeling himself sinking, his brain grasping pointlessly at anything, his temper shortening and the future unfurling, a blank slate of awful, awful nothingness…   
  
‘You’re a grown man, Sherlock,’ John said, as if hearing him. ‘You can find something to do for half an hour.’  
  
‘Nothing worthy of me,’ Sherlock countered. ‘And what about the half hour after that? And after that? If only I had your limited mind, John. Then I’d be happy.’  
  
John ignored him, too used to being insulted to take offense. Awful. Fighting with John would’ve taken up at least ten minutes.   
  
‘Go look out the window,’ John suggested. ‘Deduce the people walking past. You like that.’  
  
‘It’s not a party trick.’ Sherlock had done it a few times, early on, just to impress upon John just how clever he was, just how futile it would be to try and hide something from him. ‘Besides, the unwashed masses of London couldn’t hold my attention for more an a minute.’  
  
‘The only unwashed mass in this flat is you,’ John said. ‘How long since you showered, hmm?’  
  
‘Pah!’ John worried about the strangest things. Why should he shower when he wasn’t getting dressed? Why should he shower when he hadn’t done anything more strenuous than walk across the flat?  
  
‘Humor me,’ John said. ‘Look at the window and find me a girlfriend, go on.’  
  
 _‘Girlfriend_ ,’ Sherlock said. ‘Why I bother with you people…’  
  
But he got up and walked towards the window. There was nothing else to do. And it would be amusing to suggest people to John, perhaps- he would pick out the worst possible candidates, just to make his point.  
  
‘Well,’ Sherlock said, resting his head against the window. ‘Many options here… just depends on how picky you are…’  
  
‘Hmm?’  
  
John smiled at him. Sherlock ignored that.  
  
‘Well, lady across the road. Divorced, bad ankles, occasional smoker, lives with her mother, about thirty-four years old, bad dye job…’  
  
‘Sherlock. I wasn’t being serious.’  
  
‘Yes you were. Oh, look, this is good. Thirty, recently homeless, abusive partner, thinks she’s pregnant but can’t afford the test… I should have her for my Network…’  
  
‘That’s sad,’ John said, looking up. It was like John, to focus on the humanity of total strangers. For all he knew, she would detest him on sight and spit at his pity.  
  
‘Hmm…’ Sherlock scanned the crowd. ‘Single father. Gay. Visiting somebody, probably a parent. They don’t like him, or he doesn’t like them. Not your type, though, John, sorry. And I think…’  
  
Sherlock trailed off. A shiny black car was making its way up Baker Street, its tinted windows obscuring even the outline of the driver. Mycroft. A case? Or a social visit, to bother Sherlock about visiting their parents over Christmas?  
  
‘Anything interesting?’ John asked, alarmed by his unfinished sentence.  
  
‘Mycrofts coming,’ Sherlock said. ‘Woe is me.’  
  
He returned to the lounge. He didn’t want Mycroft to see him watching out the window. It would give the wrong impression. John sighed, closing his laptop and getting him, stretching his arms.  
  
‘I’ll make some tea,’ he said. ‘Try and keep it civilized, yeah?’  
  
Sherlock refused to answer, choosing instead to close his eyes. He’d never been religious, even slightly, but he would offer up his soul (such as it was) for a case. Please, let Mycroft have a case…  
  
Downstairs the door opened. Sherlock visualized his brother, his polished shoes, neat hair, expensive suit. Hopefully a thick wad of papers under his arm, complete with gory photographs.  
  
Footsteps. Seventeen steps. They didn’t sound like Mycrofts footsteps. Not unless he had lost a fair bit of weight recently, was in a hurry-  
  
Sherlock sat up as the man who wasn’t Mycroft jogged into the flat. He was wearing a nondescript black suit, unarmed, his face pale and worried. Something lurched inside Sherlocks stomach. No case.   
  
‘Who are you?’  
  
‘Are you Sherlock Holmes?’  
  
‘Sherlock?’ John reappeared, holding the kettle. He eyed the man, curiosity and distrust mingled in his expression.   
  
‘I’m Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘And you work for my brother. Where is he? Why are you here?’  
  
‘I’ve come to collect you,’ the man said. He sounded uncertain, though, as if he’d been warned that he might experience trouble. ‘Just you.’  
  
‘Hmmm. No. Not until you tell me why.’  
  
The man glanced at John and Sherlock sighed, exasperated by the governments obsession with secrecy. If the man knew who Sherlock was, he ought to know who John was.  
  
‘John Watson,’ Sherlock said. ‘Entirely trustworthy. Mycroft likes him.’  
  
‘Right.’ The man relaxed. He was, however, still very pale. The uncomfortable knot in Sherlocks stomach hadn’t relaxed. He was missing something, but he couldn’t imagine what. ‘Well, Mycroft has been injured. Badly. You’re presence is requested.’  
  
‘Christ,’ said John, putting the kettle down.  
  
Sherlock felt very, very strange. There was a roaring inside his head, and his stomach seemed to have vanished entirely. He stood up, stumbled a little. His feet seemed very far away.  
  
John put a hand on his elbow, steadying him. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but found he couldn’t inhale. Hurt. Badly.  
  
‘Please, Mr Holmes,’ the skinny man said. His voice sounded far away. ‘We need to go now.’  
  
‘Can I come?’ John asked. ‘I’m a doctor.’  
  
‘Afraid not. We only have clearance for Holmes. But I can work on that, if you like. We really should be moving.’  
  
Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He glanced at John, who looked tense and unhappy. He gave Sherlock a firm, encouraging nod. Not panicking. That was the important thing, not to panic. Find out what had happened, how bad it was.  
  
The slim man left and Sherlock followed. He fond himself running his hand down the wall as he descended the stairs, as if balancing himself. It was impossible to imagine Mycroft hurt. All his life, Mycroft had been smarter, meaner, older… had always been three steps ahead, had always impressed Sherlock with the immense capabilities of his mind.  
  
Mycroft was supposed to be untouchable.   
  
Sherlock barely noticed his body as he climbed into the car. He was oblivious to London as they drove through it. People on the street, other cars, buildings old and new… what did they matter?  
  
They pulled up at a small, private hospital set back from the road. The windows were no doubt fully enforced, the place crawling with security and hidden cameras. Sherlock didn’t care. He fumbled the door handle as he climbed out of the car. This, he realized, was what going into shock actually felt like.  
  
Nobody stopped them or questioned them as they walked in. That, if anything, increased Sherlocks rising internal panic. Shouldn’t people be directing them? Checking their security clearance or something equally tedious?  
  
Mycroft was on the top floor. He was unconscious, his face pale. His entire midsection was wrapped in bandages, and numerous tubes were covering his bed, connected to beeping machines. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so pale, or so old.  
  
He collapsed into the chair by the bed, distantly pleased that it wasn’t the uncomfortable plastic sort. The room had only one small window, and the blind was pulled down. There were so many machines around his brother that Sherlock could not move close enough to touch him.  
  
Once, years ago, Mycroft had sat by Sherlocks hospital bed. Is this is how Mycroft had felt? Sherlock hadn’t bothered, as he usually did, to test the purity of the cocaine. It’d been a terrible mistake. He had woken to Mycroft by his bedside, looking exhausted and angry.  
  
Slowly, slowly, his sock and confusion began to shift. His brother was not dead, though the situation was clearly critical. It had undoubtedly been work-related. Which begged the question: who was responsible?  
  
Sherlock stood up, his knees popping painfully. He glanced at his phone, and was startled to see that forty-five minutes had passed.  
  
Somebody here would know what had happened. And Sherlock would find out.

 

~

 

Sherlock had intimidated the security guards, the driver, the hospital staff. He could tell that at least four people wanted to throttle him, but he didn’t’ care. The person in charge of the disaster was coming directly from their meeting to speak to Sherlock.   
  
He was directed towards an empty staff room. His anger was becoming sharper and sharper with every passing second. Mycroft was among the most important men in the country, and without doubt the cleverest. If he had been hurt, then it was clearly the fault of somebody else. Somebody else had been incompetent, and Sherlock wanted to punish them.  
  
The silence of the hospital was eerie. If Sherlock hadn’t known better he would’ve have thought he was in central London.  
  
‘She’s here,’ said one of the nurses, poking her head into the staff room. ‘Her car just pulled up. We’ll bring her right up.’  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
He considered standing up and waiting for her, but decided against it. Sitting behind the table felt like the better tactical move, to better emphasize how tired he was, how draining the pain was that her incompetence had caused.  
  
She entered. Sherlock deduced.  
  
The same age as Mycroft, unarmed (left her gun in the car), hadn’t slept for at least forty-two hours, no pets, no husband, no children, but a lover. Chronically thin, unable to put on weight. Mycroft probably envied her that. She was dressed in expensively but her shoes were ruthlessly practical. The sort of shoes you wore if you expected never to get a moments rest.  
  
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard _so much_ about you. I’m Patricia Maunders.’  
  
‘I’ve heard nothing about you,’ Sherlock said. ‘Hardly surprising, as Mycroft doesn’t make a habit of telling me about his incompetent co-workers.’  
  
‘Incompetent?’  
  
‘He’s been shot. And I hear the finger of blame should be pointing towards you.’  
  
Sherlock let the cold rage he felt leak into his voice. There she stood, examining him, when she ought to be apologizing, resigning, and leaving the country forever.   
  
‘It was a highly volatile situation. Two were killed.’  
  
‘So I should be thanking you?’ Sherlock was pleased by the way his sarcasm made a muscle in her face twitch. ‘Oh, yes, thanks so much for not killing my brother, I always did want to see him in a hospital bed.’  
  
‘Rather a hospital bed than a coffin. I must say, I wasn’t expecting the third degree from you. I know what an awful time of it you’ve given your brother over the years. Political scandals and drug overdoses and family squabbles.’  
  
Sherlock did stand up now. If she knew as much about him as she pretended to, then she would know to be wary. But she wasn’t wary, not at all. There was no fear in her face. Nor did she seem remorseful about her treatment of an upset family member.   
  
‘Mycroft doesn’t do leg-work, not usually,’ Sherlock said, his voice low. ‘He hates it, only does it when he absolutely has to. Which usually means when somebody calls in a favor. You decided to call in Mycroft on this, despite the fact that it was extremely dangerous, despite the fact that it ‘s well known that he detests legwork, despite the fact, which I don’t doubt, that he was hugely overqualified for the role you had him playing. Now two people are dead and a man who should never have been there in the first place is in hospital, and it is all your fault. It’s a shame you don’t have a family to fall back on, as your working life is undoubtedly about to come to an abrupt end.’  
  
Patricia Maunders looked pale and so furious that she might have shot him, Sherlock thought, if it wasn’t for the fact that she’d left her gun in the car. He smiled nastily at her expression.  
  
‘You’re as bad as he said,’ she managed at last. ‘He said to me once that he didn’t know why he bothered, with you. I can see why.’  
  
She turned on her heel and left. Sherlock walked to the door, watching her go. He noted that her first was clenching and unclenching in futile fury. How satisfying.

 

~

_With Mycroft. He’ll live but it isn’t good. Hospital v private will return to 221B tomorrow. SH._  
  
It wasn’t entirely true. The hospital wasn’t so private that he couldn’t have John wait with him if he wanted. But he didn’t want John to wait with him, and he didn’t want to return to 221B.   
  
Sherlock got comfortable on the chair beside Mycrofts bed. A machine had been removed, and there was now just enough room for Sherlock to rest his head. Curious, how tiring emotion was. He didn’t feel he could leave for a proper  bed, though. He felt strongly that he needed to stand guard over Mycroft.  
  
It wasn’t right that Mycroft had been injured in the first place, after all… anything might happen, the world was going mad… it wasn’t as sentimental as it seemed, resting by his brother, lulled towards sleep by the beeping of Mycrofts heart monitor.

 

~

 

At one point Sherlock thought he woke to the feeling of fingers in his hair.  
  
But he couldn’t have, after all, not with Mycroft so weak.  
  
Still, the feeling lingered, more vivid than his usual dreams.

 

~

 

‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ Mycroft rasped. Sherlock woke up with a start, blinking. It was night, the hospital even more silent than it had been previously. He had drooled onto Mycrofts blanket.  
  
‘It is rather surprising’ Sherlock agreed. ‘I’m the one doing stupid things like being shot.’  
  
‘I didn’t do it on purpose. Water, please.’  
  
Sherlock held out a little cup for Mycroft to sip from. It was hard to see him in the darkness, but Sherlock could just make out his profile. It was good to see him speaking and moving again. It shattered the lingering illusion that he had, in fact, died.  
  
‘Should I get someone?’ Sherlock asked. ‘A nurse, or something?’  
  
‘I suppose,’ Mycroft said, sounding unwilling. ‘I wouldn’t mind just a moment of peace, though.’  
  
‘Peace,’ Sherlock said, withering. ‘You can have that when you’re dead, which is not a state I wish to see you in.’  
  
‘Your concern is… touching, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, sounding surprised. ‘It isn’t like you to be so openly sentimental.’  
  
‘You’re my brother,’ Sherlock said, exasperated. ‘Who else am I meant to be sentimental about? You were _hurt.’  
_  
And without thinking about it, without even meaning to do it, really, Sherlock kissed Mycroft on the forehead. He couldn’t remember ever having done so before, and for a few seconds there was a stunned silence.  
  
He could feel his lips tingling as if he’d done something far more risky than kissing his brother. It had been a chaste kiss, after all, and there was no reason for his heart to be beating quite so fast, for his mouth to feel quite so hot.  
  
‘Sherlock-’  
  
Sherlock cut him off, kissing him on the cheek this time. It sent a shock through him, the feeling of Mycrofts face under his lips, the softness of his cheek. He hadn’t expected. Hadn’t been expecting any of it. It had been such a normal day, he had been bored, and while he had been complaining in his flat Mycroft had been bleeding somewhere…  
  
The thought made the air catch in his chest. It was unacceptable that he could kiss Mycroft now, but that had things gone just slightly differently… Sherlock put his hand on the side of Mycrofts face, turning him. His heart was hammering inside his chest as if trying to escape.  
  
This time, there was nothing comforting of chaste about the kiss. Sherlock opened Mycrofts mouth with his lips, sighing as his tongue was permitted to enter the heat of Mycrofts mouth. His neck was at an awful angle but Sherlock didn’t care. What did necks matter? He was kissing Mycroft, living, breathing, warm Mycroft, and Mycroft was letting him.  
  
Somewhere a door slammed. Had jumped, and Mycroft pulled away. Sherlock braced himself for a shocked, disgusted lecture, and none came. Mycroft was still and silent, watching him.  
  
‘I’m in a _hospital bed,_ Sherlock,’ he said at last, as if this was the only thing worth mentioning about the whole incident.   
  
‘I didn’t- I didn’t expect-’  
  
‘Well. No, neither did I.’  
  
That was a relief, at least. Not knowing something wasn’t quite as embarrassing if Mycroft hadn’t known it either. Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, unsure of himself.  
  
‘But it was-? Um. Not bad?’  
  
‘No. Not bad. But I don’t think here and now is quite-’  
  
‘No, of course not. My mistake.’   
  
Sherlock was glad it was dark. If Mycroft had been able to see his face now…  
  
It hadn’t been bad. It hadn’t been bad.  
  
‘When I’m released, Sherlock. When I’m stronger.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, and the hunger in his voice surprised him. ‘Ok. I’ll wait.’  
  
‘Good. But can I-?’  
  
‘Yes, yes, go on.’  
  
Sherlock kissed him again, letting his hand rest on Mycrofts shoulder. He dominated the kiss, biting at his brothers lips, relishing the thump of Mycrofts pulse under his palm.  
  
‘You’re mine, you know,’ Sherlock said, between kisses.   
  
‘Apparently so,’ Mycroft replied, breathless.   
  
‘I want to hear you say it.’  
  
‘Sherlock-’  
  
‘No, please,’ he dug his nails into Mycroft, gently, but enough to warn him. His heart was hammering inside his chest. It would be true if Mycroft said it. It would be real, if Mycroft knew it too, felt it too, said it out loud…  
  
Mycroft pressed his forehead into Sherlocks shoulder. For a few moments Sherlock couldn’t hear him breathing, and it was only the reassuring beeping of the machines still attached to him that told him he was alive.  
  
‘I’m yours, Sherlock.’  
  
Sherlock kissed him again, moaned into Mycrofts mouth, his nails biting into his flesh before he remembered himself. Mycroft didn’t complain, his head tilted up towards Sherlocks mouth. For a few minutes the only sounds were the wet, gentle sounds of kissing.  
  
Eventually Mycroft pushed Sherlock away again.  
  
‘When I’m released, Sherlock. Not here. Not now. You should go back to Baker Street.’  
  
‘You’ll text me?’  
  
‘Yes, yes. Now go, before somebody sees.’  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes but stood anyway, rolling his head and wincing at the way his neck cracked loudly. He glanced back at Mycroft, who was resting back on his pillow, a dark shape against the pale sheets. Sherlock smiled, and closed the door softly.

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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